


Quiet

by jenna_thorn



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-15
Updated: 2005-01-15
Packaged: 2018-07-28 18:03:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7651018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna_thorn/pseuds/jenna_thorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sparring practice</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet

I'm not quiet, even without the cane, but given that the bass thump of the stereo they have rigged is making the dust on the stairs dance, I'd resigned myself to shouting when I got in. Here in the dojo, they've gotten complacent, dependant on the Call, but both of them should know better than to allow a mortal this kind of opportunity, and I have a comment ready to launch when I get to the doorway. That comment never makes it past my tongue.

I'm not a poet, and I've never claimed to be. I've spent one too many moonlit evenings tongue tied twisting expensive wineglasses with cheap wine in them, and I'm a hell of a lot better at letting my fingers do the romancing, but I wish I had the words to describe the way the late afternoon sunlight set up angles of light and shadow on the two of them, Duncan in a wife beater and sweat pants, Adam (no, Methos, I must remember, Methos) in something...maybe pajama bottoms, too fitted to be hakama. I can see how they could be gods, Duncan with half his hair plastered to his skull and wisps pulled out of the band, catching the light, haloing around his head like a demented saint. Methos, on the other hand, is Loki, or Coyote, some trickster sprite, just out of range, slouched and bent and wiry, making Duncan for all his speed look blocky. Rigid. It takes me a moment to realize he is angry. 

And then they move, Duncan faster than any man has a right to be and Methos slipping around, maybe even between the strikes of the bokken, though a spray of sweat and reactionary jerk make clear that at least one of those strikes connects. And the sunlight shimmers on both of them, dripping sweat and panting, muscle and sinew fluid under skin, less duelling than grappling, scrabbling for a purchase on sheening skin and even the damn wooden swords get into the act, pale wood glowing where it isn't stained dark with what might have been blood. They don't notice. Maybe they don't care.

This is the kind of situation that leads to songs in minor chords.

A slide leads to a lunge, under a parry and a missed reposte slams into a clench and they break away, Methos holding part of Duncan's shirt and smiling, Duncan with a look in his eyes that isn't entirely friendly.

Duncan turns away to shrug out of his shirt, and Adam just grins wider, tucking his chin and suddenly he doesn't look like a kid anymore. Methos. I need to get used to that.

Duncan lunges, Adam drops to a sweep and I could have told him what's gonna happen and it does, Duncan rolling to shove an elbow up his nose and following through, pinning him to the floor, both of them shaking and gasping. But I don't expect Adam to lick him. Neither does Duncan.

I can't hear them, but I see their lips move, see Adam's head bob as he responds, sure as hell see Adam drop his sword with a clatter and slide his empty hand between them. Duncan looks about as shocked as I felt, but thank God he doesn't look up. I should do something, shout, back away, let the earth open and swallow me, not lean in a doorway and watch one man slowly pump another's cock in front of me. Watch as Duncan closes his eyes and Adam (no, dammit, Methos, that's no grad student, no child at all) keeps his open, rolls them both to the edge of the mat, side by side, both half dressed and impossible to be any more different -- the hero, arched and panting and the mild mannered stranger, not so mild and more intimate than I want to see.

The song ends at the worst possible time and in the silence punctuated by the hiss of a tape I can hear Duncan moan. He may have said a word. I doubt it.

Foolish old man that I am, I hold my breath until I get halfway down the stairs, moving as quietly as I can, since it is far far too late for me to announce my presence.

The worst part of it all is that Richie owes me twenty bucks and I've no way to collect.


End file.
